


miss shots, make shots

by nahco3



Category: Men's Basketball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 21:03:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19303798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: When it happens, DeMar won’t pick up the goddamn phone. Kyle didn’t get any fucking heads up: Ujiri sent him a text after the trade went through.





	miss shots, make shots

**Author's Note:**

> title from Kyle Lowry himself: “at the end of the day, we’re gonna ride or die with each other. miss shots, make shots… anything.”
> 
> standard disclaimer: this fic is just a product of my imagination and in no way real, please please don't share this fic with anyone mentioned in it.

When it happens, DeMar won’t pick up the goddamn phone. Kyle doesn’t get any fucking heads up: Ujiri sends him a text after the trade goes through. 

_We’re counting on you._ The _to keep your shit together_ is strongly implied. Kyle sends back a thumbs up emoji, so furious he can barely type, barely see. 

He tries to FaceTime Demar but it just rings away into nothingness. He tries again: same thing. By the fifth time, he leaves his phone sitting on the kitchen counter, on speaker, ringing and ringing. He pulls a chair over and stands on it to open the cabinet above the fridge, too high for him to reach, where DeMar had jokingly stashed a thousand dollar bottle of whiskey. 

“For when we win it all,” he’d said. “Since I know you won’t be able to drink this without me.” 

“Fuck off,” Kyle had told him. “My growth spurt’s coming any day now.” 

Now, stabbing the call button for the sixth time, Kyle takes a gulp from the bottle, sitting on the counter, the house dark and quiet around him. He can’t taste the whiskey at all, just feels the burn of it going down his throat. 

“Fuck,” he says, swiping furiously at his eyes. “Fucking answer the fucking phone.” 

The thing – the thing is, he had no idea this was coming. He and DeMar had talked earlier that evening. DeMar was getting back from a pick-up game somewhere, stuck in LA traffic, and Kyle was cleaning up after dinner. They’d talked about nothing for half an hour. It had been so normal; there had been no sign DeMar knew.

But what if he did know, some insidious part of Kyle wonders. What if. What if DeMar was sick of losing, sick of a team that couldn’t get him past the conference semi-finals. Or sick of Kyle, loud, too much, in his face constantly. What if he realized. 

Rationally, Kyle knows that hooking up with DeMar hasn’t ruined their friendship. But now, whiskey bottle warming under in his hands, the endless chirping of his phone with no response, he can’t help but wonder. If DeMar found out how Kyle felt, if all of Kyle’s unwanted love was too much for him, if he asked for the trade because he couldn’t take it. If this whole time, Kyle’s feelings have been obvious and DeMar has been deliberately ignoring them, trying to let Kyle down easy. If he was trying his best to make sure Kyle wouldn’t hurt himself any more than he already has. 

He buries his face in his hands. He should have known he wasn’t good enough a player, a person, a liar to keep DeMar. Hopelessly, he presses call again. 

“Kyle?” DeMar says. 

Now that DeMar’s there, his voice on the other end of the line so familiar, Kyle doesn’t know what to say. There’s a pit in his stomach and a tightening in his throat; maybe he couldn’t speak even if he wanted to. 

“Kyle?” DeMar says, again. “You there?”

“Yeah,” Kyle says, and he has to clear his throat to make it come out right. “Yeah, I’m here man.” 

Then there’s silence, both of their breathing ragged. Kyle takes another swig of whiskey. 

“At least you’ll be able to get good Mexican food,” Kyle says, “so you won’t be constantly complaining to me about the tacos in Toronto.” He tries to muster up a laugh and wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. He can do this. He can get through this conversation without begging DeMar to stay; wouldn’t do any good anyway.

DeMar makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “All the tacos I can eat.” Kyle squeezes his eyes shut as tight as he can. If he could just make DeMar laugh, once. 

“And you’re gonna work with Pop. You’re gonna –” 

“Don’t,” DeMar chokes out. “Don’t, man.”

Kyle shuts up. “Fuck, DeMar,” he says. “Fuck. You can’t.” 

“I don’t want to go,” DeMar says, and then he breaks the rest of the way. Kyle can hear his gulping breaths, like someone dying. He can see it: DeMar sitting in his car somewhere, hunched over on himself. He can’t stand it, would do anything to make it stop, but he can’t. He leans his head back against the cabinets. Tears are running down his neck, he’s all snotty and gross. He tries to keep quiet, because DeMar doesn’t need the burden of Kyle’s feelings. 

Kyle stops crying first, he’s pretty sure. He sits with his eyes closed, dehydrated from it, tears drying cold on his face and waits. DeMar makes one last cut-off sound, and then is silent too.

“Want me to come out?” Kyle asks. “To LA?” 

“Kyle, I –” DeMar pauses for a long moment. “You sure you want to?” he asks, quickly. "It won’t be very fun.”

“Of course I want to,” Kyle says, and somehow that hurts worse than everything before did. He presses a fist to his mouth, biting down hard on his knuckles to keep quiet. After a second he says, “You know I’ll do anything for you.”

“Don’t,” DeMar says, choked up again. He takes a few more shaky breaths. “Sorry. Can you maybe just stay on the phone? Like, you can go to bed and shit, just–”

“Yeah,” Kyle says. “Whatever, of course.” 

They stay on the phone together as Kyle brushes the taste of whiskey out of his mouth, as he strips down into his boxers. He should shower but it feels like too much to try. 

“I’m gonna pee now dude, just a warning,” Kyle says. “I’ll take you off speaker though.”

DeMar laughs, short but real. “Preciate it,” DeMar he says, his voice dry and just for a second everything is normal again. 

Kyle ends up in bed, the phone next to him on the pillow, just listening to DeMar’s breaths slow and even out. He closes his eyes against the intimacy of it. 

“I miss you,” DeMar says, barely a whisper, like he’s on the edge of sleep.

Love you, Kyle wants so badly to say, more than ever. But tonight at least he can be the friend that DeMar needs. He stays silent and then, somehow, slides into sleep.

\---

Next morning, he drags his hungover ass to the airport and gets a ticket to LA. It’s insane, dropping a few thousand dollars to get on a flight that leaves in an hour. He and his mom used to think about every dollar they spent, every nickel, and Kyle still catches himself thinking in the units of his childhood. The shirt he’s wearing cost four basketball camp registration fees. His coffee is a round trip bus fair. The plane ticket is four months of rent. That’s what four years and 48 million dollars buys you: getting to see your best friend for a few days, getting him ripped away from you.

He drinks the champagne they give him on the flight and sleeps until they get to LA, dreamless. He texts DeMar as soon as he lands, but doesn’t get a reply. He’s probably driving. On his way to customs, he hears a kid’s voice.

“Um, excuse me, um, Mr. Lowry?” 

He turns: it’s a little boy, maybe six or seven, in a fucking over-sized Raptors sweatshirt.

“Hey man,” he says, bending down and holding out his hand for a high five. “You want a picture?” He feels awful, his eyes desert dry, grainy, like someone’s decided he doesn’t even get to have tears anymore. His hangover is vicious. 

“Yes,” the kid says, shy, but his eyes huge and shining, so Kyle throws his arm over his shoulder and let’s the kid’s dad snap a few pictures.

“Thank you so much,” the dad says, apologetic, with that Canadian accent that Kyle only notices now when he’s back in the States. “It means a lot to him.”

“No problem,” Kyle says. “Who’s your favorite player, buddy?”

“DeMar,” he says, and something dark, necrotic, twists in Kyle’s gut.

“We were sorry to hear about the trade,” the dad says, with that goddamn Canadian _sorry_ again, as though that means fucking anything, as if anyone on the team even cared enough to be sorry for what they’ve done to DeMar, after everything he gave them. As if Kyle weren’t sorry enough, when it should have been him they shipped off, it should have been DeMar’s team.

“Me too,” he says, short, but it feels vicious. They leave him alone after that.

\---

When he gets out of customs, he turns slowly, scanning for DeMar. Then he’s enveloped: DeMar’s arms around his chest, DeMar’s chest pressed firm against his back, DeMar’s head tucked down into the space between Kyle’s neck and his shoulder.

“Man,” DeMar says, rocking them back and forth. Kyle reaches up to wrap his hands around DeMar’s forearms, feels the heat of his muscles and his smooth skin. He can smell DeMar’s skin, the fresh-water scent of him. Feel the whole press of him against Kyle’s back, the jut of his hips above Kyle’s. One of his legs is between Kyle’s for balance.

Kyle hasn’t touched him for months: since the playoffs ended and Kyle drove him to the airport the day after exit interviews. They’d hugged and DeMar’s arms had lingered around him, giving permission to bury his face in DeMar’s chest.

“Next year,” Kyle had said, and DeMar had leaned down, pressed his jaw against the top of Kyle’s head and then let go. 

DeMar’s nearness after so long, the terror of losing him, makes Kyle light-headed and he leans back into DeMar. For one insane second he wants to turn around, press open mouth-kisses into DeMar’s skin, mark him more permanently than any tattoo. 

Instead, Kyle pulls away, turning around to look at DeMar. He’s in all black, from his t shirt to his Nikes. There are bags under his eyes. He still has his goddamn earbuds in. 

“You idiot,” Kyle says, reaching up to take them out. He’s trying to cover for the way his skin feels too-tight, the explosion of want and need he feels. His voice barely cracks. His hands brush against DeMar’s neck, his thumb rubs a circle on the soft lobe of DeMar’s ear. DeMar goes still under his hands and Kyle remembers they’re in the middle of international arrivals at LAX. He pops the earbuds out, looks down at his hands.

“Good to see you too,” DeMar says, pulling him in for another hug. He buries his face in Kyle’s neck. Kyle wraps his arms right around DeMar, clenches his hands into fists so hard the plastic of the earbuds bites deep into his hands.

DeMar takes a wet, shuddering breath, then another. “Wanna go get tacos?” he asks. Kyle can feel the scrape of DeMar’s stubble against Kyle’s neck, feels the broad wide firm warmth of his chest. Lets himself hold on for another second.

“Yeah, let’s go,” he says, finally releasing DeMar.

\---

DeMar takes them to a taco truck parked between two auto body shops. It’s just after lunch, so it’s just the two of them, sitting on the curb. Kyle’s drinking Coke out of a glass bottle, with real sugar, a tiny act of defiance against the team.

“I always wanted to take you here,” DeMar says. “Like when I showed you the city.”

“It’s good,” Kyle says, taking another bite. He has to tilt his head to get it into his mouth, but some of the onions on top still spill off. DeMar laughs.

“We used to go here after games in high school,” DeMar says. “Once someone dared me to eat ten and I threw up.”

“Why you tell me that when I’m eating?” Kyle asks, mock-outraged. 

DeMar shrugs and lapses into silence again. Kyle bites his lip and stretched his legs out long, so that they lie against DeMar’s. 

“So where else is on the tour?” he asks.

“I used to think like, Compton, to see my aunties and stuff,” DeMar says. “But now, not so much.”

“Maybe we skip that until things settle down,” Kyle says. He can’t imagine anything worse for DeMar right now than that. Every time he was traded, he wanted to curl up alone in his apartment, live in a bubble of his own hurt until he could find the protective coat of anger he needed to face the world. DeMar’s never been through this before, and this is a thousand times worse than Houston or Memphis. 

“Yeah,” DeMar says. “I’m renting a place up in Malibu.”

“Bougie,” Kyle says, drawn out and exaggerated to make DeMar laugh. It works. 

“Get an AirBnB,” DeMar says, but he pulls Kyle up to standing and his hand lingers on the back of Kyle’s neck, a solid weight, the barest pressure.

\---

The house is beautiful; doors open wide to the endless expanse of the Pacific, kitchen bigger than any of the apartments Kyle lived in growing up, white marble and gleaming steel. There’s a pile of papers on the counter, and Kyle looks through them, masochistically, while DeMar gets himself a glass of water.

It’s DeMar’s contract, pages and pages of it. Parts of it are marked with little Post-it notes, or annotated in neat, unfamiliar hand-writing. 

“Oh,” Demar says, turning around. “I had my agent courier it over, after.” He’s looking down at his hands. Kyle can imagine DeMar, late last night, confused and hurt and looking for some secret loophole, some way to undo it all. But there’s no way out, every damning word helpfully highlighted.

Kyle can’t bear thinking about it. DeMar, exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, his cheekbones even more prominent than usual, is leaning against the counter. What the fucking team did to him, the promises they broke, the promises they made Kyle break. He doesn’t want to think about it any more, self-loathing burning hot through his body, blame wrapped around his throat. 

He drops to knees. 

“Kyle,” DeMar says. Kyle ignores him, undoing DeMar’s fly and mouthing DeMar’s dick through the cotton of his briefs. 

“Kyle,” DeMar says, with more urgency, his hand coming to the back of Kyle’s head, firm, overwhelming pressure. 

When they first started fucking, DeMar would never hold him down hard enough or pull his hair. He kept letting up, looking at Kyle, soft concern, asking if he was ok. He didn’t understand how Kyle can take it, can take anything, doesn’t need or want to be coddled. It took months before DeMar finally let go. Kyle remembers the night, on the road. He had taken a hard charge late in the game, been a little shaken up. 

Afterwards, DeMar had come to check on him in his room. He didn’t believe Kyle was fine, even after Kyle had shown him the bruise growing on his hip, nothing different from usual. Instead, he’d pushed Kyle down onto the bed, grip on Kyle’s wrists so hard that Kyle thought he could feel the bones grind together, other hand ruthless, running over the bruise over and over. Kyle had pushed up against him, painfully hard, desperate for it. DeMar had fucked him, one of Kyle’s legs pressed up over his shoulder, until Kyle had come untouched, even more bruises blooming on his skin. DeMar had kissed him through it, come shaking inside Kyle. Kyle had fallen asleep in his arms, DeMar stroking gently up and down his side, pressing kisses into Kyle’s temple while Kyle had drifted above everything, not processing DeMar’s soft stream of words.

Now, Kyle pushes down DeMar’s briefs, hands clumsy with desire. DeMar is already hard, leaking at the tip. Kyle takes him down, probably too quickly, gagging a little bit until he adjusts. DeMar’s hand on him loosens, coming to gently cup the curve of Kyle’s head. Kyle digs a hand into his own thigh, hard and sharp. He can’t endure softness. He takes DeMar the rest of the way, and blissfully, DeMar pulls his hair. It runs through him, sharp, perfect, straight to his dick. 

“God,” DeMar says, voice thick. He thrusts forward into Kyle’s mouth and Kyle sticks a hand into his own jeans to start jerking himself off. “Fuck, look at you.” Kyle has to shut his eyes, light-headed with desire, giving himself over to DeMar. One of DeMar’s nails catches against the skin of Kyle’s forward, a star of pain, and Kyle can’t help the noise he makes.

“Slut,” DeMar says, voice soft, and Kyle hips buckle forward, his mind blissfully clear of everything except needing DeMar. His hand speeds up and he feels himself go loose, dropping into the place where DeMar can take anything he wants. 

“Kyle,” DeMar’s voice cracks, his hand loosening, his hips pulling back. Kyle tries to follow, leaning forward, but DeMar cups his chin and tilts his face upward.

“Please,” Kyle says, needy and not able to care. “Please, you can do whatever you want, just let me.” He can feel the drying tracks of tears on the side of his face, falling down uncomfortably cold to the well of his collar bone. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to think. 

“I can’t,” DeMar says, his thumb swiping soft across Kyle’s lip, wiping away the spit and pre-come there. Kyle tries to suck it into his mouth but DeMar pulls away, shimming his briefs back up. He’s still hard. 

“You can fuck me, you can come on my face, please,” Kyle says, fast, trying to chase the quiet surety that he could give DeMar what he needed, but it’s too late, guilt and shame rushing too quickly. He feels nauseous. His knees hurt from the cold stone floor. He’s starting to shake, a fine tremor running through him. 

DeMar slides to the floor next to him, reaching a cautious arm out and around Kyle’s shoulders. Kyle collapses into his chest, pathetically grateful. Pathetic. DeMar’s other arm rubs up and down the notches of Kyle’s spine, his fingers moving in slow, light circles.

“I’m sorry,” DeMar says. Kyle shakes his head against DeMar. It’s all his fault for wanting all the wrong things, for not being good enough to keep them.

\---

Kyle ends up napping on the couch, an uneasy sleep, sliding in and out of consciousness. He’s aware of DeMar moving through the house around him, of his soft, measured voice speaking on the phone. At one point, he feels the cushion dip next to his head, the ghost of a hand along his temple, and then he slides back under.

When he wakes up for real, the room is empty, but the doors are wide open to the deck and he can hear the susurration of the waves, smell the thick brackish sea air. There’s a gentle golden glow, sunset suffused through afternoon mist. Kyle takes a deep breath, then another. He feels horribly and fully alert. 

He grabs his phone: there’s a text from Kawhi Leonard, and one from DeMar. Kyle dismisses the text notification from Kawhi; he isn’t fucking interested. He opens the message from DeMar, not sure what to expect. 

_Im outside_ it says. 

He goes.

DeMar is sitting in a deck chair, phone in his hand, head down, shoulders slumped. Kyle wants to kiss him on the cheek, make him laugh. Instead, he takes a careful seat, leaving one empty chair between them.

“Sorry,” DeMar says. He looks up, out at the ocean. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“It’s cool,” Kyle says. “It was my fault, anyway.” 

DeMar shakes his head. They’re quiet for a moment; Kyle’s heart in his throat, raw, beating and bloody. 

“I just need my best friend,” DeMar says, barely audible. Kyle tries to swallow; it takes him two tries. 

“Well, he’s busy, so you’re stuck with me,” Kyle manages, and DeMar reaches out across the space between them to whack him on the shoulder. 

“Idiot,” he says, and Kyle laughs, looks out at the ocean. It’s hard for him to believe he’s here, that any of this has actually happened, that he won’t wake up in his teenage bed in Philadelphia. 

“There’s just all this shit I have to do,” DeMar says, suddenly, his voice speeding up as he speaks. “Deal with my shit in Toronto, find a place in San Antonio. Am I supposed to sell my place in Toronto? And all these people keep texting me and I can’t.” He stops to take a breath, too fast. “I can’t even open them.” 

“Hey, hey, hey, big guy,” Kyle says, getting up and walking behind DeMar, putting his hands around DeMar’s shoulders. The muscles there are tense, hard, and Kyle rubs with his thumbs, an exaggerated version of a massage. “I’ve done this tons of times, ok?”

“You’ve done this twice,” DeMar says, but at least his shoulders are looser now. 

“Yeah, which is two more times than your dumb ass has,” Kyle says. And when Kyle was traded, no one bothered texting him to welcome him to his new team, no one said goodbye except for like, the one video guy who would always pull extra tape for him, and a couple of the other dudes on the bench. And his agent sure as shit didn’t send him his contract, back then, he was too annoyed with Kyle for fucking up his career to even answer his calls the same day.

“Anyway,” Kyle says. “Give me your phone, I can read you the texts and stuff. And I’ll call your agent and tell him to find you a place in San Antonio, new construction, wine cellar, sex dungeon, what the fuck ever.” DeMar stills for a second under his hands and Kyle regrets the joke keenly, bile in the back of his throat, but he presses on. “Keep the house in Toronto, it’s a good investment. Hire movers at the end of the summer. Easy. Done.” 

“Easy,” DeMar repeats. “Right.” Kyle comes around, flops back down, keeping a careful one chair distance from DeMar. DeMar’s eyes are still too wide, downcast, the animating spark Kyle loves so much gone.

“Everything’s easy with practice,” Kyle says. “Be glad you aren’t good at this.” 

DeMar doesn’t say anything to that. There isn’t anything to say. It should have been Kyle, getting traded, but maybe he wasn’t even good enough for that. Kyle holds out his hand and DeMar hands over his phone, his fingers brushing against the top of Kyle’s wrist. Kyle suppresses his body’s response brutally, and type in DeMar’s passcode.

“You ready to start with the texts?” he asks. 

DeMar shuts his eyes. 

“We don’t have to,” Kyle says. “I know this shit is hard for you.” 

“I can’t,” DeMar stands up and walks to the edge of the deck, his hands clenched into fists. “Kyle, how come I can’t.” He stops, abruptly, hunched in on himself. Kyle walks to stand next to him, unable to keep himself away. He isn’t sure if he’s allowed to touch, or if he is, where the boundary is between _best friend_ and _hook-up_ lies on DeMar’s skin.

He bumps his hip against DeMar’s thigh and DeMar crumples into him. For a second Kyle staggers under his weight, and he has to go up onto his tip toes so that DeMar can press his forehead to Kyle’s temple easily. He can feel DeMar’s heart beating rabbit-quick between them, his shoulders heaving with the effort of breathing.

\---

They get delivery, from some trendy burger place. DeMar offers to take him out, but Kyle can tell from the way he sets his shoulders, the way his eyes dart from the door and back, that he’s not up for it. When the delivery guy comes, Kyle answers the door; DeMar had walked out onto the balcony when the doorbell rang.

When Kyle joins him outside in the velvet twilight, DeMar is sitting, head hanging down, eyes fixed on his hands. His right foot is tapping up and down, minutely, compulsively. 

Kyle sits next to DeMar, their knees bumping. He knew it got this bad: it reminds him of Cleveland hotel rooms, of late-night flights back to Toronto, DeMar almost frozen with anxiety. All DeMar has asked for, this whole time, was someone to sit with him and get him through this, and instead he got Kyle, desperate, messy, demanding.

“Food’s here,” Kyle says, but DeMar doesn’t look up or reach out. Kyle pulls out the fries, puts them in front of DeMar.

“C’mon,” Kyle says. “You’ll feel better once you eat.”

DeMar doesn’t move. Kyle grabs a fry himself, smacking his lips dramatically. “See, not poisoned,” he drawls. Still, nothing. The sky is deepening, the ocean black, first few stars coming into view.

“Please, man.” Kyle lets out a shaky breath. He presses his shoulder against DeMar’s, hoping it’ll steady him. Steady one of them, at least. 

“Who the fuck can’t answer their own door,” DeMar says, hollow, still not looking up.

“Hey,” Kyle leans harder into DeMar’s side. “That’s my best friend you’re talking about.” Because that’s what DeMar needs right now, a best friend, a captain. Someone to get him through this.

DeMar turns, presses his face into Kyle’s shoulder. His t shirt sleeve rides up and he can feel the roughness of DeMar’s stubble, the brush of his lips like a kiss when he finally talks. 

“What am I going to do without you?” he asks, into the soft darkness.

“Find someone else to eat dinner with,” Kyle says, biting his lip, looking out at the ocean. Goosebumps are coming up on his arms, and he wishes it were because of the breeze. 

DeMar laughs once, hollow and fake. “Right.” DeMar stays like that, twisted up and pressed against Kyle even though it can’t be comfortable, until Kyle can’t take the intimacy of it anymore, has to stop himself from saying something stupid by doing something even stupider. 

“Wanna get in the hot tub?”

\---

They strip down to their boxers, Kyle tripping awkwardly out his jeans like a teenager again. It’s cold out now, sun all the way down and the moon out, but Kyle can’t look away from DeMar. The lines of his tattoos tracing up and down his arms, the curving script on his hands, his broad chest, slim hips.

When he looks up, DeMar is looking back at him. It’s too dark for Kyle to read his expression, he can only see the glint of DeMar’s eyes. Kyle wants, wants, wants: to kiss him, to drop to his knees again, to curl into his arm. His heart is pounding, bitter adrenaline in the back of his throat. It’s not about what he wants; it’s what DeMar needs.

He sinks into the hot tub, trying to prepare himself. DeMar follows, steam rising between them. He’s even more aware of DeMar now, the physical fact of him. He swallows. 

“I fucked up earlier,” he says, looking out at the ocean so he doesn’t have to look at DeMar when he says it. 

“When?” DeMar asks. “When you flew to a different country because I was freaking out or when you bought me dinner I wouldn’t eat or when.” He stops, but Kyle won’t look at him.

“When I blew you,” Kyle says. He clenches his hands into fists under the water. 

“Oh,” DeMar says. His voice is so quiet it’s barely audible over the wind and the waves and Kyle’s uneven breath. “I get it.” 

Kyle can’t get the last few words out. He looks over at DeMar; it’s a mistake, his stomach turning over with pain and want. If he kisses DeMar, DeMar will push him away. If DeMar pushes him away, Kyle will be able to stop. Kyle’s used to being left, unwanted. He should be glad there’s still things he can give DeMar, after all of this. 

He’s aware that he’s been staring at DeMar in silence, running his teeth over his lower lip again and again. DeMar makes a noise, miserable, frustrated, and surges forward, kissing Kyle, his hands gripping Kyle’s biceps, hard.

Kyle’s pressed up against the edge of the hot tub, the rim cutting into his back, DeMar holding him in place. 

When DeMar pulls back, Kyle’s lips feel numb from kissing, the rest of him overheated. 

“One last time?” DeMar asks, his voice unsteady. His nails are digging into Kyle’s arms. 

It’s more than Kyle thought he would get, but loss still spreads like ice out from his heart. He kisses back instead of answering. They stay like that for a long time, pushing against each other, silent except for their panting breaths, the occasional noise Kyle lets escape. Eventually, though, DeMar tugs Kyle up, maneuvers them back onto the deck. Kyle doesn’t want to let go of DeMar, and DeMar keeps pulling him in for more kisses, half in and half out of the water.

Once they’re out, DeMar runs his hands down Kyle’s back, gripping his ass and forcing Kyle up onto his toes, Kyle following, arms thrown around DeMar’s neck. 

“You can carry my fat ass to bed?” Kyle asks, trying to lighten the mood, convince himself this is just one last casual hook-up. 

“Watch me,” DeMar says, getting his hands on Kyle’s ass and hiking him up so that Kyle’s legs are wrapped around his waist, his arms around his shoulders, his face pressed safe into the hollow of DeMar’s throat, skin sliding across wet skin. 

DeMar staggers through the dark house, Kyle pressing increasingly desperate kisses to DeMar’s neck, already getting hard. In the bedroom, DeMar drops Kyle down onto the bed, then turns on the light.

Then he’s on the bed next to Kyle, kissing him slow and long. Kyle opens up and lets him in. DeMar reaches down, peeling Kyle’s wet boxers away. Kyle wiggles his thighs to help him, rolling onto his back as he does. DeMar kisses him, deeper and deeper. Kyle bites at his lips, helplessly hard, unable to plan, just wanting. 

“I want,” he says. It’s all he can get out, it’s everything, monumental, life-defining. 

DeMar exhales carefully, running a hand along on the side of Kyle’s face. Gentle. He rubs his thumb across Kyle’s jaw. He nods, the motion pressing their foreheads together. 

“Me too,” he says, and kisses Kyle’s reply out of his mouth, leaving Kyle to push his hips against DeMar and simultaneously try to pull off his underwear.

“Ok,” DeMar says, setting his shoulders like he’s taking a free throw. Then something in him shifts, his eyes focusing in on Kyle, intent and consuming. He wraps a hand around Kyle’s neck, and Kyle tilts his chin up, letting him. He presses down, the barest pressure, and Kyle gasps. He’s so hard he can’t think.

“Look at you,” DeMar says, sweet, the way he never has before. He kisses Kyle, squeezing down just a little more before releasing the pressure, his other hand sliding down Kyle’s chest, over his breaking heart, further and further down. He jerks Kyle off, grip firm, a twist in his wrist.

“You’re so beautiful,” DeMar says, and Kyle lets go, melting into the mattress, coming apart and back together. DeMar kisses him through it. Kyle sprawls out, breath feeling ripped out of him. DeMar straddles his hips and Kyle reaches up to take DeMar’s hand, suck DeMar’s fingers into his mouth.

“Jesus,” DeMar says, running his other hand through the mess on Kyle’s stomach, then keeps jerking Kyle off. Kyle makes a desperate noise around DeMar’s fingers, over sensitive and getting had again, not sure if he’s moving towards or away from DeMar, not able to stop or get away.

“God, Kyle,” DeMar says, pulling his fingers out of Kyle’s mouth, kissing him on his wrecked lips and then leaning back to slap Kyle on the cheek, his hand still working Kyle’s cock. Kyle comes again, loose and wrung out, eyes falling shut, head light. 

He’s overcome with the feeling of DeMar’s skin against his as DeMar rubs off against him. Kyle kisses him and lets himself be kissed.

\---

They drift off to sleep like that, wake up a few hours later, sticky and hungry. DeMar’s stomach growls.

“I can’t believe you didn’t eat,” Kyle says. He doesn’t want to ever move from here, DeMar wrapped around him. He shuts his eyes again, wishing he could will himself back to sleep in DeMar’s arms, for just a few more hours. 

“I’m sure the next guy’ll buy you dinner and remember to eat it,” DeMar says, his voice inflectionless, but he grips Kyle’s hip, hard. 

“What next guy?” Kyle asks, so surprised he sits up, looking down at DeMar, who isn’t looking at him.

“You know,” DeMar says. “After me.” 

“Right,” Kyle drawls, narrowing his eyes, “the next guy, of the tons of guys I fuck around with.”

DeMar shrugs, a tiny jerk of his shoulders. 

“You’re literally the only dude I’ve ever,” Kyle stops, waving a hand at DeMar’s naked body to encompass fucked, gotten fucked by, jerked off on an airplane, failed to win a championship with. 

DeMar shuts his eyes. “That’s not what I meant,” he says. “Just. Once you’re not stuck with me and you can be with someone, you know, for real.”

Kyle barks out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, that’s what this was.” Finally, DeMar turns to look at him, shadows under his eyes. “Come on,” Kyle says. “Don’t play dumb, you gotta know how I wanted it to be.” 

DeMar pushes himself up, facing Kyle, brown eyes overflowing and bright. “How. Did you want it to be.” He reaches out, almost touching Kyle, then stops himself. Kyle looks down at the sheets, at DeMar’s left hand, _loyalty_ inked across the edge of it. A hand that’s pulled Kyle up and held him close and taken him apart. 

“You know,” Kyle says. Hope’s a dangerous thing, cuts like a razor in his throat. “Forever.” He can barely get the word out. He looks up and DeMar’s just staring at him, lips parted, his chest heaving. Then he’s pulling Kyle in, sudden and strong and inescapable, kissing him again, until his stomach growls, and Kyle pulls back.

“Let’s get you fed, then,” he says, happiness so big it hurts.

\---

As they’re eating the cold fries, side by side on the couch, DeMar’s phone buzzes, and DeMar reaches across Kyle to grab it. Kyle wants to be annoyed, but he feels too happy to care.

“Do you think you can read me some texts now?” DeMar asks, shy, and Kyle’s heart flips over in his chest. 

“Of course,” Kyle says, curling into DeMar’s side. DeMar hands his phone over and then wraps his arm around Kyle, kisses the top of his head.

“Well, this one’s from LaMarcus. He says: _can’t wait to see you, we’re going to do great things_ , exclamation point, thumbs up emoji, trophy emoji.” 

“You gonna do a stupid voice for all of them?” DeMar asks, his voice an amused rumble, running through Kyle.

“Stupid voice? That’s just how I talk, asshole,” Kyle says, butting his nose against DeMar’s forearm, following it with a kiss.

“Keep reading,” DeMar orders, laughing, so Kyle does.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to [jamwingles](http://jamwingles.tumblr.com) and [Emmy](http://veryspecificfantasties.tumblr.com) for their help and encouragement. thanks also to everyone on tumblr who has shared my love for these two nerds; I really hope you like this fic!
> 
> you can find me on [tumblr](https://baking-soda.tumblr.com), screaming about basketball and so much more.


End file.
